feelings she kept back, fearing we might not like them.

I have seen a great deal of her during the last week; and I confess to you that her warm, affectionate, and grateful heart has won upon me even more than her poetry. She is a most interesting person, and I do not doubt will be worthy any little good we can do for her. The errors of her poetry are not many; they consist principally in bad rhymes, such as morn and storm, and writing thou comes, instead of thou comest, &c. The other evening, when I pointed out to her a few things of this sort, and advised her to re-write a stanza or so in one of her poems, she made me her little country courtesy, and said, "If I pleased she would endeavour to do so at home, for somehow or other there were only two or three places in which she could think of verses. One was amongst the flower beds, the other in her own room, but the chief and favourite place was in a certain old chair that stood in a corner of her kitchen. There, with her two companions, her canary* and her

*

Her canary bird appears to be as great a wonder as herself; for she assures me (and so have others) it can talk, and say Pretty Dick," and "Pretty little dear." The poor talking canary now gives her trouble, for, as she tells me, "it is like to die."

little dog, Dimpler, at her side, she delighted to sit and make her poetry."

Her favourite dog, however, tore up a neighbour's garden in so sad a manner that he has been given away. She cried about it "scores of times," she said, but he comes every day to see her. Before she was obliged to part with him, Dimpler and herself went one evening to take a walk together to Crowndale, a beautiful valley watered by the river Tavy, where the celebrated mariner, Sir Francis Drake, was born. Beguiled by the beauty of the scene at the evening hour, Mary lingered longer than she should have done, and, not being much accustomed to ramble from home, could not readily find her way back again. Whilst herself and her little four-footed companion were doubtfully retracing their road, she amused her mind by thus prettily addressing him.

TO MY LITTLE DOG DIMPLER.

Sweet creature, turn, I think it's best,
The sky is getting dark;

The gentle lambs are gone to rest,
So, Dimpler, do not bark.

The tears of night begin to fall,

The wandering breezes sigh;

The birds have ceased their songs, and Sol Hath closed his radiant eye.

Enwrapt in gloom the woodland lies,
And all is dark and drear;

But soon the lamp of night will rise,
Our gloomy path to cheer.

Though nothing in the world's esteem,

Perhaps despised; but, lo!

I'm here as happy as a queen,
And is not Dimpler so?

We'll cheerly pass the lonesome way;
Come, pretty creature, come;

There's nothing now to court our stay,
And so we'll hasten home.

With thee I'm pleased: the noisy throng

To me no joys afford;

Where slander whets her venom'd tongue With each unguarded word.

And virtue's wreath she soon devours,

And sows the seeds of death;

And thus displays more blasting powers
Than Etna's fiery breath.

Of late, I've by experience found,

She plays the wily part,

And lays her secret snares to wound
My unsuspecting heart.

But all such tales I will suspend,

Such thoughts I now may chide,
While such a little faithful friend
Is fawning by my side.

I know thou play'st a faithful part;
And may that part be mine,
And all my actions prove a heart
So void of guile as thine.

I have only to add that the few verses she now takes the liberty of addressing to you are, as well as being her own composition, in her own hand writing. She begged me to take charge of them, with her "most humble and grateful duty to the kind gentleman." Such were her words, and I have faithfully reported them. As all her feelings, if of poetry, pleasure, or gratitude, connect themselves with flowers, you would have had a very

E

fine plant sent, as an offering of thanks, from her garden, could I have taken charge of it.

Hoping that the accounts I have been able to collect respecting this poor girl and her poems, may afford some little interest or amusement to the fire-side of Keswick,

Allow me, my dear Sir,

The honour to remain,
Yours most faithfully,

ANNA ELIZA Bray.

TO ROBERT SOUTHEY, ESQ.

POET LAUREATE, &c. &c.

On being told by Mrs. Bray, that he had most kindly noticed me and my little verses.

As the flower that is bathed in the tears of the night, Will breathe forth its fragrance, the boon to requite; So, when kindness hath kindled delight in the heart, To breathe forth its feelings is gratitude's part.

And since condescension my lay hath beguiled,
Forgive, Sir, the boldness of Nature's rude child;
Permit me to thank you with humble respect,
For goodness so great, which I ne'er could expect.